


fluorescent adolescent

by satterthwaite



Category: The Tudors (TV), Whitehall University
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, But also a bit of plot, F/F, Femslash, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, References to Arctic Monkeys, Smut, Whitehall University AU, one-night stand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satterthwaite/pseuds/satterthwaite
Summary: She used to get it in her fishnets; now she gets it in a bridesmaid dress.





	fluorescent adolescent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Whitehall University](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5543693) by [boleynqueens](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boleynqueens/pseuds/boleynqueens). 



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY HALEY! 
> 
> So for those of you who read 'Whitehall University' (and I know you're a lot), this is kind of AU-ish where all the events that took place in WU are the same except Mary and Lizzie aren't together. This is spoiler-free since I don't know what boleynqueens will do with her fic in the future, so this can be read as a fanfiction of the fanfiction! 
> 
> This fic was inspired by the song "Fluorescent Adolescent" by Arctic Monkeys.

Oh, the boy is a slag.

She is pressed against the wall, her dress hiked up as he pushes into her, grunting against her neck, and she swears she has never been so bored. She’s done counting the tiles on the opposite wall, and she wonders when he’ll be finished, so she can get back to the party and actually enjoy herself.

She knows she only has herself to blame; knows she shouldn’t have taken off with the first boy who was remotely interested in shagging one of the bridesmaids, because those ones always end up being the worst (and he is proving it right now). But it’s just taken her by surprise, the whole sadness of the event — for her, at least. Anne’s getting married, and instead of feeling happy, she feels pretty shattered.

Hence the very poor fucking against a bathroom wall.

She had thought it would be nice, that it would take her mind off for a few moments, because sleeping with people was something she enjoyed — but no. It’s everything but, and she has to restrain herself from yawning. Her college days are over, and so are her good one-night stand it seems.

One more grunt, louder than the others, and she feels his body going slack against her. He raises his chin and tries to kiss, sloppy and awkward, but she turns her head and pushes him off her, strengthening and dusting off her dress as she does so.

"Alright, I’m going out first. You went 20 minutes here then you can go. Have a nice evening." He opens his mouth to protest (poor boy has probably imagined they would spend the night together at the shitty inn he booked for the night, because it’s very Anne and Henry to get married in the most remote place in all of England, but Mary is definitely not having it), but she’s gone through the door before he can say a single word.

The dancefloor is crowded with guests, but Anne and their closest friends are sitting at the head table, in deep conversation and henched over sheets of paper. There’s Anna Sevile, of course, Anne’s witness; there’s also Megan Shelton and Jen Parker, all of them bridesmaids like herself (except she’s the sister, so obviously she’s more important). George is there, too (of course, he would gang up with the girls, because they share the best gossips, especially Parker) and he’s laughing with Anne.

As Mary walks towards them, they all raise their heads in unison as she gets closer, and Anne quickly snatches the paper from view. "Nice evening, Mary?" she asks, and there’s a curious smile on her lips, as if she’s refraining from laughing. She furrows her brow — what are they doing?

"Yes…" she replies, suspicious. "What’s that you’re hiding?" she points at the paper her sister is holding firmly in her lap, away from view.

"Nothing" As she speaks, she side-eyes her brother, who evades Mary’s gaze as well.

"Come on guys, what are you doing?" She bends forward and grabs the paper, pulling.

"No!" Anne shouts as she tries to resist Mary’s grip, eventually letting go when her sister closes her other hand around her wrist and pinches.

As she unfolds the crumbled piece, at first she just reads names of guests — until she realises they’re all males, and her name is written on top of the page.

"What the fuck is that?" she asks as her eyes roam over the list. There are little numbers next to the names, in what seems to be a random order — before it dawns on her.

"Were you taking bets on me?" Her face has dropped, and she looks at her sister with an expression that is both shock and anger. "Did you fucking bet on who would fuck me tonight?"

"Mary, it’s silly… I did it for all the bridesmaids, not just you, I swear…"

"Well, I don’t find it funny. At all." There is some tremble in her voice, and her lower lips quiver. Her eyes sting, and she feels tears coming up to her eyes. "I find it fucking disrespectful. I find it fucking awful." She crumbles the paper into a ball in her hands, and throw it towards her sister. "Fuck you. And fuck you!" she adds as she points at George, who has been silent during the whole exchange, before she storms off towards the exit.

"Fuck, I thought she had a sense of humour…" Anne bits her lips, feeling guilty. It’s true she has done it for every girl, and out of all of them, she had never thought Mary would be the one reacting badly. "I fucked this up, didn’t I?"

"She’ll be fine, Anne" George wraps an arm around her, kissing her temple. "Perhaps it was just a bad shag and now that she’s seeing the names which were on the table, she’s regretting it." At least he manages to make Anne laugh.

* * *

It’s not even about how bad the fucking was.

It’s about how fucking tactless her siblings can be.

She would have thought that Anne would remember their college days, where Mary had been called a prostitute by half of campus when Valois (and Charles Brandon) had decided to stain her reputation. She guesses it is a time long gone now, and her sister didn’t have it in mind when she played her little game.

Still, it strikes a much deeper chord than just events from almost 10 years ago.

It reminds her that she’s been doing this for a long time now, going on from boys to boys without ever finding real happiness, real satisfaction. It reminds her that she can go off with anyone remotely attractive. It reminds her that the list her brother and sister wrote down was fucking long, and that they know how she’s been acting, never settling down, never finding the one. And she’s growing tired.

"You’re not supposed to cry at weddings, unless you’re the bride."

She looks up from where she has sat down (the steps to one of the many doors of this castle belonging to the Tudor family) and she sees Lizzie Blount standing above her, smiling. Lizzie Blount, who has been invited despite being Henry’s ex-girlfriend because she is one of the sweetest girls of their acquaintance, and no one can hate or despise her for more than 10 seconds. Lizzie Blount, who is there despite the party being inside and whose blond hair shines in the sunset lights of summer. She’s put on a flower crown (of real flowers, mind you) over her braided updo, and Mary catches the fall of one of the rose petals before it reaches the ground.

"Or unless the bride is being a cunt to you." That makes Lizzie smile.

"Fair enough. What has Anne done?"

"Just being silly, really, but it hurts more than it should."

Lizzie sits down next to her, puts a hand on her lap. "It’s okay, you’re allowed to be angry if her behaviour made you feel uncomfortable. You don’t have to apologise for your feelings."

Mary turns her red-eyed glance towards her, smiling timidly. "Thank you. It really means something that someone would say this, and take me seriously."

"Well, of course" she smiles, tucks a strand of Mary’s hair behind her ear. "Now, everyone should have fun at weddings, and especially bridesmaids, because everyone knows they’re supposed to be getting some."

At that, Mary lets out a little cynical laugh. "Oh, I have, don’t worry, and it was the worst experience of my life — or at least, of those last 12 months."

"Boys… you can never count on them, can you?" Lizzie chuckles, too. She has not removed her hand from where it stood after she removed the hair from her face. Her bent wrist is resting against Mary’s shoulder, her palm against the square of her jaw.

"Apparently, you can’t."

"Leave it to the girls to show you where the fun is." And in the same beat, she bends forward and kisses the Boleyn eldest on her mouth, softly, as if testing the waters, seeing how the other will react.

Mary doesn’t move, frozen at first; but Lizzie’s lips are warm and soft, slightly slick with lipstick and scented with the expensive wine all the guests have been drinking, courtesy of Henry Sr. The mix is enthrancing and she gives in soon, exhaling as her whole body shifts closer to the other woman, and Lizzie’s hand fully cups her cheek, sliding towards the back of her neck as the kiss deepens, lips parting and the flavours become stronger when tongues touch. She feels warm, and she doesn’t know whether it’s the setting sun or the kiss, but she has a good idea which one is more likely.

When they part, breathless, they giggle like schoolgirls, and Mary blushes. "Well, that is… certainly new."

"You mean, you’ve never kissed a girl before?"

"Well, I have, but… not like this." She means, she has never wanted to do it again so eagerly than now. Growing up among girls, and doing ‘girls’ sports like dance and cheerleading, she has kissed girls before, for bets and when drunk at parties.

But this feels miles away from what she is used to. This feels like entering a garden, and feeling at home immediately. This feels like the first warm ray of sunshine in spring. This feels like the warmth of home after a long day, with a fire in the hearth and a blanket on the couch. This feels like seeing a friend after a very long time, and nothing has changed. This feels like a homecoming, like something she has waited for — until now.

"I never wanted to do this afterwards" and she’s on her mouth once more, more fiercely this time, more passionate, and her hands go on either sides of her ribcage, pulling her towards her. She feels something scratching at her forehead, before it falls down and she realises the flower crown has tumbled down, unnoticed and uncared for. She feels Lizzie’s hands around her waist, going up her back, feeling every inch of her which is accessible to her touch.

"We should go somewhere else," the Blount girl suggests, and Mary knows she has seen enough of the bathroom for the evening.

"I have a room here for the night. Family’s privilege," she explains with a smile, and she takes Lizzie’s hand as they get to their feet.

Not letting go of her, they both quickly cross the dancefloor, zig-zagging through the guests tables, and Mary thinks she can hear Anne crying after her, but she could not care less. In less than 20 seconds they have evaded the crowd and have headed upstairs through the service stairs, laughing like teenagers.

Mary fumbles with her clutch, looking for her room keys as Lizzie kisses her neck, and she finds it hard to concentrate when she can feel those warm lips against her skin. Eventually, she manages to push the door open, and she leads them both inside, stumbling through a small corridor and finally reaching the bedroom, where a queen size bed occupies the centre of the space. The place is decorated in modern fashion, but Mary can only tell because she has spent the night here already; right now, her mind is otherwise engaged to be able to focus on decoration.

They kiss, and Mary walk backwards, falling on the bed and pulling Lizzie with her in her tumble, lips locked and limbs awkwardly entangled. They kiss, and Mary stops Lizzie’s hands when they start fumbling at her dress, looking for zips and buttons.

"I’ve never done this before." There’s shyness in her voice, a bit of shame at not knowing what to do. Lizzie smiles and caresses her cheek, soft and sweet.

"It’s okay. Just lie back and enjoy it, you deserve it."And so that’s what she does as the woman resumes her kissing, focusing on her neck as her hands work to break open her corsage, and Mary is now very glad that Anne decided on very simple dresses for her bridesmaids.

Before she even realises, her bosom is exposed to Lizzie’s eyes and mouth, who leaves a trail of lazy kisses along her sternum, before lingering on the outline of her ribcage, slowly and careful, as if the bones might break, as if the bones need to be cherished. Her hands are gently pressed on either side of her chest, and her thumbs pushes against the undersides of her breasts. Every time her lips touch her skin feels like a little jolt of electricity through Mary’s spine, and soon moans are bubbling at her mouth, and Lizzie chuckles against her skin.

"I haven’t even started yet," she smiles.

"Shut up and don’t stop," Mary breathes back, and the other laughs again, before her lips close around a pink, erect nipple, and gently suck, the tip of her tongue teasing the little nub of skin, and the moan it draws is louder than the others.

She can’t even remember the last time she’s been offered such a treatment, and that’s when she realises how her life has been sad for too long, and as Lizzie keeps her mouth where it has the biggest effects, she decides she will never again get with someone who isn’t prepared to give her the full show that she deserves. She is done forever with men who think foreplays are a waste of time, and she is done forever with boys who think of their penises as magic wands for orgasms.

Her hand closes around the back of Lizzie’s head, probably messing up the sophisticated, braided bun she sported minutes ago still, and she feels her going down, kissing the prominent bones of her hips, before taking the skirt of her dress and pulling it to reveal her legs. She lets out a teasing whistle when she sees the nylon stockings Mary has put on for the occasion.

"You were prepared for the hook up," she comments. Mary just smiles.

"The previous one wasn’t worth all the efforts."

"When I’m done, you’ll wish you’d made even more."

"Is that a promise?" Mary’s eyebrow shoots up, defiant and amused.

"Honey, that’s a fact," and Lizzie’s head disappear under the skirt.

Her deft fingers start rolling the thin material down her thigh, and her lips take the place of the garment, covering each inch of skin patiently, as if she’s trying to memorise it, to map it, mark it with her own desire. Being undressed by her feels more like a caress, like a feather going over her flesh and rendering it bare with the lightest touch.

Mary’s losing track of the patterns her fingers and lips trace over her legs; she swears she can feel her kissing the back of her knee, but the second after her face is pressed against the inside of her thigh, and her mind loses itself a comfortable blur of lust, a mist falling upon her eyes when they’re not closed.

Suddenly her fingers are hooked inside her lacy underwear, and there is a moment of hesitation, for both of them. Mary opens her eyes and looks at Lizzie, staring back at her. A silent agreement is the formed in the seconds that follow, and her panties are slid over her legs and thrown off the bed.

She still has most of her clothes on, and yet she has never felt so naked as in this moment. There is a sort of vulnerability, and she puts her hands over her breasts, suddenly timid, suddenly impressed. She knows nothing and Lizzie knows everything, and the position isn’t a comfortable one.

The other can feel the anxiety, and instead of going straight for the prize, she leans towards Mary’s face, and kisses her gently on the mouth, nibbling at her lower lip with playfulness.

"Don’t worry," she breathes, and she’s gone again, and this time her hot breath echoes against her sex, and the mere feeling of warmth makes her tense up, toes curling in anticipation.

She is not getting what she wants.

At least, not immediately. Lizzie is determined on agony, she will make pleasure linger. She begins her worship at the inside of her thigh, and her teeth get involved, grazing the skin before her tongue licks up the little marks she leaves, hungry and lustful. Mary squirms under her, tries to get her where she wants her to be, but Lizzie wants to stay in control. At her sides, Mary grips the sheets in her fists, twisting them — better that than the blonde’s hair.

The Blount girl puts both her hands flat on Mary’s thighs, pushing them even further apart; and still she doesn’t put her mouth where it’s wanted, needed. It’s always above, or on the side, and someone’s growing impatient.

"For God’s sake, stop playing about!" she moans, and when she looks up, Lizzie can see the Boleyn sister has shut her eyes tight. She smiles.

"As you wish then."

When her mouth is pressed against her sex for the first time, it is met with wetness, and her tongue slowly laps it up, and at once Lizzie can feel Mary’s whole body tensing up, arching like a bow and one of her legs bend. Her fists’ grip gets tighter around the sheets, and for the few seconds which follow the first encounter the world stand still, waiting.

Mary’s panting already, her breath coming in short rags.

"Please… please don’t make me wait." She can’t help the words: they come tumbling down out of her mouth and mind, she feels lost and in need, like a thirst she cannot name. She just knows she needs to feel that again, wetness against wetness, warmth meeting warmth. She wants to cry from the mere feeling of ecstasy such a simple touch has brought upon her.

God, has it been so long? Has she been so depraved of such sensations?

Whatever it is, she has no time to dwell on it, because Lizzie is working her magic again, and this time there is no teasing. Her mouth covers the whole of her sex, and her tongue comes out to circle her clit, growing hard and numb with the ministrations. Each movement, each breathing brings out cries in its wake, and soon her right hand has found her way towards the back of Lizzie’s hand, gently pushing her further into her groin, gently begging her for more in her breathless state.

Lizzie feels the pressure as encouragement, and quickens the movement of her tongue, pushing against the entrance of her cunt, before going up again and sucking on her clit. Carefully she slips two fingers inside while her mouth is closed around her sensitive numb, and she starts to slowly finger her.

"Harder… please." The woman’s shyness is cute, and Lizzie’s chuckle sends vibrations which make her moan louder still. If she knows what she wants…

There is no more hesitation now, no more timidness, no more wondering what the other might think. They’ve reached a complete state of abandonment, of letting go and letting their partner catch them if they fall. The movements of her hand become quicker, rougher; her free one goes to grab her breast, squeezing, and Mary cries out. The hand which is not in Lizzie’s hair is brought in a fist into her mouth, she bites on it. There’s a fire coiling right between her loins, and it’s slowly going down towards that point where their bodies are joined. The closeness of her ecstasy renders her mad: she is squirming, her hips going up and down to meet the pace of Lizzie’s fingers, and the ball of her foot rubs against the woman’s back and bottom, digging perhaps too harshly. She is lost, her head thrown back and her neck tensed up.

When she finally reaches her climax, it feels like a powerful bolt of electricity has gone through her whole body, and she freezes. It takes a second for her cry to actually escape her lips as she lays, stunned and breathless and exhausted.

"Oh God, oh God…" she finally whispers, and the fist which was closed into her mouth comes to wipe away the strands of hair stuck to her forehead.

Her eyes are tearing up from the sheer force of her orgasm; now she understands "la petite mort", the little death, this instant which follows pure pleasure and during which it seems there can be no greater joy to be had on earth, and that it may never happen again.

"That was… amazing," Mary laughs, because words are still lacking, and Lizzie comes to lie next to her, kissing her gently on the lips, and she tastes herself on her mouth, and she hungers for it.

"You were great, too, for your first time," the blonde smiles, and she cradles her face inside the crook of her neck.

"I’ll make it up to you, I promise…"

"What about now?" she cheekily replies, and when their gaze meet, Mary knows she won’t see much of that wedding party, after all.

* * *

 When they finally go down and join the other guests again, Anne is the first to come up to her.

"You missed the cake!" she exclaims, fists on her hips, looking cross. "Where were you?"

And Mary wants to say that she got her own dessert, and that nothing her sister can do or say now can spoil her evening. Instead, she takes Lizzie’s hand in hers, and squeezes it.

"Enjoying myself. Perhaps you should have added girls to that betting list," she grins, and before Anne finds anything to say, she has lead her friend towards the dancefloor, throwing her arms around her neck once they’re in the middle of the other dancers.

"I don’t know where you had planned to stay the night, but my room is open to you," Mary smiles.

"Thank God! I thought you’d never ask, and I’d have to go back to that terrible bed and breakfast 50 minutes away from here." They both laugh, their forehead touching.

Perhaps ‘never settling down for less than the best again’ just means settling down for girls instead.


End file.
